


Like Gold to Airy Thinness Beat

by comtessedebussy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Courtship, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: James and Thomas settle down on an independent, prosperous Nassau after Charles Vane aids James in rescuing Thomas from the plantation. That's when Thomas catches Charles Vane's eye, and an unconventional courtship ensues...In other words, this is the smutty, plot-less James/Thomas/Charles fic I've been going on about for weeks now.





	Like Gold to Airy Thinness Beat

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from John Donne's "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning." Its meaning will become clear throughout the fic.
> 
> Thank you as usual to bean for beta-ing, and to all of my lovely black sails peeps for putting up with me as I talked and whined endlessly about this fic.

Thomas stands on the deck of the _Walrus,_ stares up at the sky, and _breathes._ The sea breeze ruffles his hair, and God, how he had missed the wind. Georgia had been hot and humid, and though he had at least had the stars, the air never stirred in summer, stifling him instead. Here, he felt freer – as if he could flap his wings and take off into the night, as if he was suddenly untethered – and yet not, for an invisible but unbreakable link connected him to James. A link between their hearts that time and men might strain, but the truth and purity of which would never be in question.

 _Our two souls, which are one, though I must go, endure not yet a breach, but an expansion._ The verse comes easily to his mind, his love of beautiful words returned to him with the joy of life that James had brought with him.

He smiles, turning his face up at the sky and feeling the breeze. For the first time in ten years, he truly _feels_ something besides sorrow. He feels exhilaratingly alive, joy coursing through him and filling him up and spilling over until he can hardly remain still.

At some point, however, the sky starts to spin; at first, he thinks it’s a bout of sudden vertigo, courtesy of being on a ship for the first time in years, before he realizes they’re in choppier waters and stumbles backwards. He braces himself for the fall and feels strong arms catch him.

He begins to smile as he turns around, relishing James’ strong hands around him. “I should know you’re always there to catch me,” he says, before he fully turns and catches a glimpse of who stands behind him.

It’s Charles Vane, and he looks _ravenous._

“Oh,” Thomas makes a small sound.

“Careful.” Vane’s voice is tight and contained, like a coiled spring. “You don’t want to go around falling into the arms of dangerous pirates. You never know what they might do with you.”

He lets Thomas go as he says this, and Thomas wonders if he’s making a point, freeing him when he could….not. But, despite the way his dark eyes glint – with both desire and something else entirely, something less civilized and more monstrous that Thomas feels curiously, cautiously drawn to – Charles stands apart from him. There is no intimate proximity between their two faces, and Charles gazes into his eyes rather than raking his own over Thomas’ figure. There is something about the way he holds himself that is, Thomas realizes, unique – an obvious predator, and yet Thomas does not feel like the prey.

“I seem to have fared better in my life at the hands of pirates than so-called civilized men,” he admits. It is true: his own kind, his own _father,_ had committed him to an asylum, subjected him to torture in the name of curing him, sent him into a life of slavery, and drawn the cloak of shame over his entire existence. But James Flint had come to save him, with Charles Vane, notorious pirate and ruthless killer, by his side. He stood in complete freedom for the first time in a decade on a pirate ship, and though James’ and Charles’ men looked at him curiously, few approached him, and none dared insult or coerce.

He had few illusions about pirates. He had seen the death and destruction they left in their wake at the plantation, the burned buildings and bleeding bodies. He was merely – not inured to such things, certainly, but had a more nuanced view of them. He had seen, in the past decade, civilization spill blood and destroy with fire and flood. Perhaps James and Charles’ acts were unforgivable – but so, he thought, were civilization’s.

Charles approaches the gunwhale near which Thomas stands and looks out at the endless sea with him.

“Civilization is for the weak,” Charles says. “For those who would rather have comfort than freedom, who pay for that comfort with the price of others’ suffering, their lives, their loves. Who are complacent, for they would rather surrender their freedom than their comfort.”

“And pirates?” he asks. “Have they all chosen freedom over complacency?”

Charles shrugs.

“Some of us, anyway.”

….

Back in Nassau, Thomas likes to think that it is freedom they have chosen, not complacency, even if there is no war left to fight. James and his allies have succeeded in making Nassau independent and self-governing, a haven for those England persecutes. Some pirates remain – those who pursue that life because for them, to be on land is to be in chains, those who need the rush of battle-fury in their lives, and Charles Vane is one of those.

Miranda is as well, Thomas discovers. Weary of a life inland where all the days are identical, she now commands her own ship, running a supply chain to the Maroons.

He and James walk inland and settle down, several miles from the town. Their home is quiet, secluded, and large, with rooms for Miranda for when she returns. They make their way to Nassau every few days, and today is one such day: James prepares to make the journey for a meeting with Max and Eleanor regarding matters of defense and trade.

“May I come along?” Thomas asks.

James raises an eyebrow at him as he dons his boots. “Why would you want to?” he asks skeptically.

“Research,” Thomas suggests.

“You aren’t writing another pamphlet, are you?” James asks. “Because I have to tell you, half the island’s practically illiterate.”

“If I were to write a pamphlet, it wouldn’t be for the people of Nassau. But no, I want to see the place where you spent a decade of your life, the place we worked so hard to change. I wish to understand it.”

“Well, I didn’t spend any time in the brothel,” James retorts.

“No, but from what I’ve heard, it’s the prime attraction of the island. Surely you won’t keep me from seeing the gem of Nassau?”

James snorts.

“If you want. Come on, then, my meeting’s at ten.”

James is occupied with Eleanor for roughly an hour, which allows Thomas to sit back and observe. Only in a place like Nassau, he thinks, would a brothel also be the center of order and government; it is from here that Max and Eleanor run trade while sifting through the gossip of the town for useful information brought to them by whores and spies.

He watches with interest as men drink and talk, as they flirt and pay and follow women (and occasionally men) to private rooms. No one bothers him – word had spread through the island upon his arrival that he was under Flint’s protection, and there were few men who wanted to anger Flint.

That is, until two newcomers arrive. They’re obviously newcomers, for not only do they offer Max a laughably small sum to purchase her for the night, but when she refuses, they turn their attentions to him. He attempts to make his disinterest clear, but his hints and subtlety are lost on them. He’s just wondering quite how he should extricate himself when he hears a voice behind him.

“I suggest you take your hands off him,” Charles Vane says very, very calmly, but the threat is clear.

“Or what?” one of the men suggests, but it’s half-hearted.

“Or you will be missing those hands,” Charles responds without missing a beat.

The two men exchange glances. One of them opens his mouth to protest, but the other glares at him, and they scuttle off.

“Thank you,” Thomas says, rising.

Charles shrugs.

“No need,” he says. “Though we really must stop making me saving you a habit.”

“Must we?” Thomas can’t help asking.

“Flint should do a better job protecting what’s his,” is all Charles says before stalking off.

…..

They return the next week. Thomas’ curiosity about the intrigues and affairs of the island is insatiable, and so James accompanies him with saintly patience. He could likely go alone – after last week, he has a feeling he would be safer than ever – but James, overprotective as ever, is loath to let him go alone. Besides, after ten years, Thomas, too, does not wish to spend a moment more apart from James than he has to.

A wary silence falls as they walk in. James attempts to hide his smirk, but Thomas lets his show on his face. It is somehow gratifying to be under the protection of one so feared. They share a drink in amiable company, James telling him stories about the men here. Then Charles Vane enters, and a hush falls once again, as glances dart between Thomas, James, and Charles. James does not fail to remark it.

“Is there something I should know?” he asks, danger creeping into his voice.

“Do you remember that time you took me along when you had business with Eleanor?” He asks. “I stayed downstairs while you talked to her – “

“Yes.”

“Well, there were a couple of men, newcomers- “Thomas manages to get out before James’ eyes flare and his fists clench.

“What did they do?” James demands. “Why haven’t I heard of this?” Had Thomas known the anger was not directed at him, he would have been terrified of the fire in his lover’s eyes.

“They did nothing. Vane intervened. Protected my honor, you could say,” he says patiently. “I suppose they now expect the two of you to fight for my hand,” he adds wryly.

James considers this. He looks torn between gratitude and something much darker.

“Why?” he asks. “Charles Vane is no altruist, and surely he must know that you are mine - ”

“Well, pirates _are_ a stubborn bunch,” Thomas points out, amused. But James remains sober and serious.

“If Vane bothers you, I can speak with him,” he offers. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“He has done nothing but protect me, James. It really is quite sweet, in its own way. I don’t find myself bothered by it.”

“Don’t let him hear you saying that,” James says wryly, “or I really _will_ be forced to fight him for you.”

“I hardly think so,” Thomas says with a smile. “He is a better man than he seems.”

James is quiet for a moment.

“Charles Vane is…volatile, and impetuous,” he finally admits, “but he is not dishonorable. He would honor your choice.”

Thomas smiles as he reaches for James’ hand.

“Well, you know I would always choose you.” He brings James’ hand, with all its rings, to his lips to kiss. “Worry not. I already have my own notorious pirate, and I need no other.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas catches a glimpse of Vane, who has seen their kiss. He turns away, but not become Thomas catches a brief longing flitting across his face. Suddenly, he feels something that is not quite guilt. 

That is all they say about Charles Vane that night.

….

Thomas curses as he tugs the trunk of books behind him. Charles had left it for Thomas at Eleanor and Max’s with a brief note, nothing but his name. “I have something for you,” Eleanor had told him, amused. Beside her, Max had snickered.

He’s glad to have them, of course; Nassau isn’t particularly rich in libraries – pirates prefer to spend their money otherwise – and the treasure trove that Charles has brought him is just that: treasure.

But they’re also fucking _heavy._

He heaves the trunk onto the porch and bends over, panting, and wipes the sweat that’s running into his eyes.

James comes out of their house to see Thomas; his eyes flicker from the trunk, to Thomas, to the trunk.

“What’s in there?” he asks.

“Books,” Thomas confesses. “Goddamned heavy ones, too. I think one of them might literally be a brick.”

James cracks a small smile, then heaves the chest up easily onto his shoulders and carries it into the house. Thomas watches, mesmerized, at the strong muscles of his back. He’s had more than a few chances to experience them first hand; James had been gentle at first, but eventually he had allowed himself to be…firmer, to hold Thomas tighter, until Thomas could relish the strength of those muscles, honed over a decade of hardship.

Thomas follows him into the house. James opens the trunk and roots around inside. Thomas hears a snort.

 _“The barbaritie of pirates?_ Pamphlets? Oh, look, a copy of _Don Quixote_ translated _into_ Spanish. Where did you get this?”

“Charles Vane,” Thomas confesses, still breathless.

James bursts out laughing.

“Vane? Is he trying to seduce you by acting like a cat bringing you dead mice? Are you certain this isn’t some practical joke?”

Thomas feels sudden guilt. Charles had meant well.

“Yes,” he says. “Don’t laugh,” he says. “He’s doing the best he can.”

James chortles as he walks off.

…..

Thomas sighs, frustrated. His fingers are covered in ink, the paper before him in scratched-out lines, and yet his memory proves uncooperative.

“James?” Thomas calls. “Do you happen to remember how that poem of Donne’s goes? The one we loved?”

James looks up from where he’s been reading.

“Dull sublunary lovers love – “ he begins.

“Yes, yes, that one,” Thomas says excitedly. It’s two verses before the one he needs, but he relishes the words rolling off James’ tongue, his voice like sun-warmed honey.

James kneels to recite for him the words they have loved, gazing meaningfully into Thomas’ eyes.

“Dull sublunary lovers love  
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit  
Absence, because it doth remove  
Those things which elemented it,”

Thomas beams back at him as James continues.

“Our two souls therefore, which are one,” James pauses here, either remembering or relishing the words. Both, perhaps. He catches Thomas’ hand, kisses it before he continues.

“Though I must go, endure not yet  
A breach, but an expansion,  
Like….” He recites, trailing off.

“Damn,” he says. “I can’t remember. Some metaphor. Not the one about the compass, that comes later.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas grasps James’ hand with the one James had kissed.

“Do not be,” he reassures. “It has been many years, with nary a volume to read.”

James looks down, abashed. “We had books,” he admits. “When I took ships, I’d raid their books. I brought quite a few to Miranda too, to keep her company. Even found some of her favorites in Spanish.”

“Oh,” Thomas says.

James takes the proffered hand, kneels before Thomas though the occasion hardly calls for it. “I will find it for you. Bring it from the ends of the earth, if I must.”

“It is only a book, James.”

But James’ eyes burn.

“And we are only dull, sublunary lovers,” he says, “whose love cannot admit absence.”

Thomas smiles and leans forward. James meets him halfway, and they kiss, eyes, lips, and hands all touching intimately.

…..

“Like gold, to airy thinness beat,” Thomas announces proudly.

James turns around and raises his eyebrows.

“The poem,” Thomas explains. “I found the book. Did you really not look before you left me that pleasant surprise?”

“What book?” James asks.

Thomas fixes him with an amused gaze.

“The book you promised to fetch from the ends of the earth,” he explains. “ _Our souls…endure not yet a breach, but an expansion, like gold to airy thinness beat_ ,” he adds, but James doesn’t look any less confused, so Thomas holds it up from where he’s hidden it behind his back.

“I haven’t found the book yet. I’ve been trying, but the captain’s library isn’t usually on the ship’s manifest,” James retorts.

Thomas crosses his arms.

“Then where, pray tell, did it come from?”

James stares at him quietly for a few moments. He frowns.

“Charles Vane.” Thomas answers his own question at the sight of James’ confusion. “He must have overheard.”

“Vane?” James’ voice is on the edge of dangerous, so unlike the last time Thomas had mentioned him. “Is he still courting you? Does he not know that you are _mine_?”

The last word is passionate, but Thomas does not fear it. It is said with love, not ownership, even with the spark in James’ eyes that awaits but a word to be kindled into fire.

“He does not bother me. I find it quite sweet, really,” he admits. “Who would have thought pirates were so sentimental?”

Thomas sees James clench his fists only because he knows to watch for it. But the rest of him remains calm, the calm of a coiled snake ready to strike should the necessity arise.

“Do you desire him?” James asks.

“I cannot say I feel no desire for him,” Thomas admits, because that is the truth. “But I have done nothing to encourage him.”

“And to discourage him?”

“Nothing, but he has not asked, not offered, made no moves except this strange wooing, so easily disguised.”

James considers this. The fire is not gone from his eyes – but he has calmed.

“James,” he says softly, approaching his lover. He cradles James’ head in his hands, and James allows himself to be soothed. “It has been so very many years since I felt a loving touch. I burn, I desire, I crave, I _want._ But I swear to you, no other but you will touch me. I would not allow it.”

James finds the hand on his cheek and brings it to his lip.

“I would never doubt your faithfulness, or your honesty. You have my trust, completely and forever. But…”he trails off. He looks down, allowing his beautiful fiery lashes to hide his eyes. “You _desire,_ ” he says hoarsely. He leaves the _another_ unspoken, but Thomas hears it clearly.

“And you do not?” Thomas asks. “In a decade, you have not looked at another man and felt your body’s urges?”

James shakes his head.

“When they took you away, I lost that part of myself that could truly _feel._ Pleasure was lost to me, forever as I thought. I was numb to the world around me.”

Thomas gazes it him with pain and pity.

“Oh _James,_ ” he says. “Had you soothed your pain in another’s arms, I would not begrudge you that.”

“Did _you?”_ James asks quietly.

“No. But I cannot say I did not feel the temptation. There were days when I craved the touch of another human creature, as capable of _feeling_ and pain as I, whose skin burned too, and whose tears fell in suffering, and there were days when I craved your touch so much I thought I would die of it.  I had offers, at the plantation, they permitted such things, and there were days when I was ready to close my eyes and pretend that anyone, _anyone_ was you. But I knew they would be less than a pale facsimile of what we shared, and that that knowledge would rip my heart open, after.”

James considers this, and Thomas finds his face inscrutable. Had time really erased his ability to read James as easily as he had once? Or was it James who, forced to live behind a façade these last ten years, had perfected the art of the stony mask?

James cradles his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry you suffered so. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Thomas finds James’ hand on his cheek with his own and winds their fingers together.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, love.”

……

James plants a kiss at the crook of Thomas’ neck as they lie, back to chest, in the warm sunlight. His hand snakes down to Thomas’ cock, which stirs readily at the touch. He trembles like a virgin lover. It still feels so new, and precious, and raw, what they share. He cannot get used to the idea of being touched so, after so many years.

James’ strokes are slow, languorous. They stretch out into minutes, and Thomas realizes that this is more than a hasty favor.

“You can have him, if you want,” James says quietly, as he continues to stroke Thomas.

Thomas, distracted by the delicious tease of James’ hand, the release it promises but does not give, takes several moments to remember who James might be referring to.

“Charles?” he manages to ask. He wonders if James intends the name to feel profane, spoken while he is in James’ embrace. “You are sure?”

James’ hand speeds up, just the slightest bit, bringing Thomas closer, ever closer.

“Yes,” he says. “If you want him…..there is so much life has taken from you, so much you have not been allowed to have. Fate has been cruel. I would not be so as well. I do not wish to leave you wanting.”

He is touched to his very core, wrung inside out. Moments later, his orgasm crashes over him, his need satisfied by James’ expert hand, and he finds that he cannot separate the force of his physical pleasure from the waves of fondness and affection and gratitude he feels for James, for his generosity, for the way he must have wrestled with himself before coming to this conclusion.

He turns and finds James regarding him intently. He had expected no less.

“James,” he says, catching the very hand that had satisfied his ardent desire moments ago. “You don’t have to. You know that.”

“I want to be there,” James says instead. “When he – whatever you desire from him, I want to be there.”

“Oh _James,_ ” Thomas says. “Of course you would be there. Did you think I would leave you alone, after we have been separated for so much time, to seek satisfaction in another’s embrace?” He turns, propping himself up on his elbow. “I _want_ you to be there. I want your eyes on me. I want – god, I don’t know what I want, so many things. I want you to tell him what to do, and I want to do it myself. I want to dominate you both, and I want to be _taken_ by you both. I want your touch, after.” The words spill from him, desire after desire, too many to voice. He feels like he has been containing an ocean for the entirety of a decade, an island onto himself, distant and alone for what he believed was forever. And now it pours forth from him, the want and the craving that he denied day after painful day.

James stares at him in awe.

“ _Oh,_ ” he says, a little breathlessly.

Is there no end to the ways in which James McGraw would break his heart? Not by any grand gesture or by any refusal, but by a million miniscule moments that come together to create a mosaic of heartbreak and pain that has been his life.

“My soul belongs to you, as does my body. Everything I have, everything I am, I would share with you – this too. If you did not know this, or ever doubted it, know it now.”

James kisses him.

…..

Thomas knocks on the door. He hears a curse, and wonders if he has…. interrupted Charles. He hears the sound of a key turning in a lock, the cocking of a pistol, and the door opens a crack. He finds himself facing the butt of a pistol.

“What is it?” Charles Vane’s voice comes from behind it.

“It’s me,” Thomas says quietly.

Immediately, the pistol is lowered and the door swings open further.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were eager to see me,” Thomas offers.

Charles, laconic as ever, merely beckons him inside. Thomas steps in.

Charles has, for a change, chosen to room at [Eleanor’s tavern] rather than a tent on the beach. His quarters are sparse, even for a guest room at a tavern. Surely he could afford better quarters with the hauls he brings in, but Thomas has learned that Charles is a man of simple tastes and simple needs. He wonders if this is also true of him in bed. He so looks forward to finding out, and the idea quite charms him.

“What do you want?” Charles demands with his usual charming courtesy.

“I wanted to thank you for the book,” he says. “I was happy to have it, and quite touched.”

“You’re welcome,” Charles says gruffly. “Is that all? You came all the way here to thank me?”

“I have also come to accept your offer,” he says, cutting to the chase. He doesn’t see the point of doing otherwise.

Vane crosses his arms in front of his chest. The simple gesture draws attention to them, and to his muscular biceps. He is much slimmer than James, too slim, almost, for the power Thomas knows he carries with him.

“Offer?”

“Let us not play games, Captain.” The title appears to work as seductively as he had hoped, for Charles relaxes the slightest bit. “You have been wooing me for the past several weeks. It really is quite endearing, and I will admit that I am….attracted by the prospect.” He approaches, and Charles watches him warily. Suddenly, he feels their roles reversed, himself the predator and Charles the prey. “Our desires seem mutually complimentary. Unless yours have changed?”

“What of Flint?” Charles asks, curt and to the point. “Am I to believe that you have tired of him already, after the hell he went through to get you back?”

“James has given his consent to this…arrangement. He is well aware of your offer, and of my desire. His one condition is that he be present.”

“He wants to watch me fuck you?” Vane asks.

There really is no end to Vane’s bluntness, and for all his love of eloquence, Thomas finds it refreshing, attractive even. He had less patience for the superficialities these days.

 “Yes. And to share. Those are his conditions, and I intend to honor them. Will you as well?”

Vane approaches him. Again the roles of predator and prey flip, and Thomas feels his stomach turn over as Vane stalks toward him.

“An angry James Flint is a complication I do not need in my life,” he says. “Swear to me that he has given his consent.”

“I swear,” Thomas says simply. “And if you do not believe that, you must believe that I would not be unfaithful to him.”

Charles moves ever closer, the heat of his body palpable to Thomas, so close that they exchange breaths. His eyes are sharp and penetrative as ever as he watches Thomas’. Thomas remains still and slowly, ever so slowly, Charles draws forward and kisses him.

Thomas lets him. He parts his lips, expecting Vane to force himself in with his tongue, to explore and then claim. But he does nothing of the sort. His lips are softer than Thomas had expected, and they do not take. They wait, Thomas realizes, and tentatively, he kisses back.

Immediately, Charles draws away, gazing at him appreciatively. Thomas realizes belatedly that he has just passed some kind of test, for Charles nods.

“When and where?” he asks, business-like.

Thomas gives him a time to come to his and James’ home, and Charles nods again.

“Shall I see you home?” he asks. It is a gentlemanly gesture, and Thomas is touched, but they both know it is a useless one. Between Flint’s protection and the word that had spread of the incident when Charles had saved him, he could not be safer.

 “To protect me from less honorable pirates than you, Captain?” he asks in amusement. Charles’ mouth quirks up in amusement at the reference to their first embrace.  “Thank you, but I think I shall manage,” he says, and turns to leave.

“What did it mean?” Charles calls after him. “Those words, in the book I brought you?”

Thomas turns back, intrigued.

“Which ones?” he asks.

“All of them. I read it, but it’s like reading Greek. Sublunary lovers, what the fuck does that mean?”

“That particular word comes from Latin,” Thomas corrects. Charles looks both frustrated and impressed.

“Sublunary – literally, it means under the moon. It refers to love that is merely physical, and that therefore is of this world rather than transcending it.”

“Clever,” Charles says.

He waits a moment more, but Charles says nothing more, and Thomas takes it as his cue to leave.

…..

Charles walks up to the house Thomas and James have settled in. It is lit from within, and though he hates to admit it, it looks cozy, the warm light shining from behind the curtains. He follows the instructions Thomas has given him, letting himself in the front door that has been left unlocked for his convenience and bolting it behind him.

The room he enters is dark, lit only by firelight, while light comes spilling from the bedroom. He moves towards it, but a dark figure detaches itself from the shadows and intercepts him.

Flint stands before him, the firelight setting his beard on fire. Despite Thomas’ oath – and if Charles Vane believed anything, it was that Thomas Hamilton was not an unfaithful man – he feels a sudden trepidation. Will Flint never cease being a complication on this goddamned island?

“Thomas swore to me that you knew, that you agreed,” he says.

“I do,” James returns. He approaches even closer, until his face is inches from Charles’. His hand goes instinctively to his sword hilt.  He knows they are relatively evenly matched, as Charles had discovered over the years in their various scuffles – or alliances, when they fought side by side. But what would Thomas think, if the two of them went at it in the anteroom? Surely he would not take it well if Charles hurt his lover, but Charles would be damned if he didn’t defend himself.

“I know,” James continues, “that gentleness is as foreign a concept to you as your barbarian ways are to him. But for his sake, you will attempt to learn. You will be gentle with him. You will respect his wishes in every way. You will not leave a mark upon his body. You will not so much as harm a hair on his head, or I will _eviscerate_ you.”

He has known of Thomas for only weeks, but he has known the passion and fury inside James Flint for years. Charles has absolutely no doubt Flint means those words in their most literal sense.  

“I had no intention of doing otherwise,” he says, and it is the truth. He has learned that Thomas is not quite the pampered lord that he appears to be, that he has survived torture and slavery and hardship and come out – not unscathed, but alive and _intact,_ whatever that means, and the man Charles is cannot help but admire that. And yet, he feels the urge to treat Thomas gently, as a precious thing easily broken. Not out of a belief in his weakness, but another instinct entirely that Charles cannot – or rather, has no desire to – identify.

Flint scrutinizes him, and Charles does not allow himself to flinch from the fiery gaze. Whatever he finds in Charles’ face, he is satisfied with it, because he nods and steps aside, heading towards the bedroom. Charles follows.

He enters the warm, softly-lit bedroom and stops. He begins to gasp slightly before catching it.

Spread shamelessly on a large bed of snow-white sheets is Thomas Hamilton, in a pose as guileless as it is enticing. Light haloes his golden hair and warms his naked skin, but the _piece de resistance_ is the book he holds, which appears to absorb the entirety of his attention. Charles recognizes the cover – the black leather and inlaid scrollwork he had left for Thomas days ago.

Charles has never been a man who believes in higher powers, but Thomas Hamilton looks outright angelic.

He catches a glimpse of Flint’s face. He’s smiling, clearly entertained by Charles’ stunned expression. He feels the sudden, overpowering desire to wipe that smirk off his face. He quashes the deep longing that accompanies it, for whatever Flint and Thomas share, that precious thing that he does not quite understand but senses in some unspoken way.

Thomas looks up, and Charles is ready to swear that he bats his eyelashes in enticement. He smiles, too, a knowing smile that shares a kinship with Flint’s own, but somehow on Thomas Charles finds it endearing rather than infuriating.

Thomas puts his book aside slowly after bookmarking his spot, Charles is ready to swear that it is a tantalizing ruse, like a woman fumbling on purpose with her stays. That, too, is endearing.

Charles begins to remove his weapons. He’d come fully armed, a habit instilled in him and that he refused to abandon in any circumstance. His sword he lays on a nearby chair, then the dagger on his other hip. Two more daggers come from his boots.

Thomas watches in fascination, his eyebrows slowly crawling up to his hairline as Charles continues to divest himself of his weapons.

“I see you have come prepared to battle an entire army for me,” he remarks wryly.

Charles glances over at Flint, whose smile is equally wry.

“You do have an entire army guarding you,” he points out. “But I would never take you by force,” he adds, a moment of candidness he feels compelled toward.

“I know,” Thomas says, as he slides off the bed to stand before Charles. “I would not have chosen you otherwise.” He reaches forward, a gentle hand cupping his cheek to draw him into a kiss. He has seen Flint and Thomas cup each other’s faces that way as they shared the most intimate of kisses, and for a moment he feels like an intruder, a profane heathen in a holy temple, but Thomas draws himself inexorably towards him and plants his lips on Charles’, and Charles ignores the qualms in the back of his mind. He loses himself in Thomas’ kiss – short, and sweet, and chaste, a mere prelude to what is to come.

“Undress for me,” Thomas says, breathlessly, when they break apart.

Charles obeys. He divests himself of his shirt, throwing it onto the chair where his weapons rest, and follows with his boots. He straightens once he has removed all his clothing – he had considered keeping his drawers, but it is a gesture of propriety that he had always found superfluous, and Thomas seems to agree, judging by his sharp intake of breath as his eyes rake over Charles’ body.

He seems to like what he sees, and a warmth spreads inside Charles at the thought that Thomas _likes what he sees._ He stands straight, offering not only his body but a favorable view, curious to see what Thomas will do next.

Thomas touches him, maps Charles’ body with his hands. They are more calloused than Charles had expected, though he supposes that is natural – years of manual labor will do that as a man. Why _had_ Charles expected him to have delicate hands?

But his hands are strong and sure as they slide over Charles’ torso, over the firm muscles of his chest and the smooth planes of his stomach. Thomas glides his hands over his shoulders, slides them down his biceps, and Charles feels a small smile quirk at the corner of his mouth. This – physical strength – he has always been good at, and he knows Thomas notices by the way his eyes darken and his breath comes more quickly.

Then, tracing his pectorals once again, Thomas’ hands trace over the small scar – the brand – on his chest. Charles can’t contain a small flinch, and Thomas, perceptive as ever, catches it, and his hands move on, tracing again less sensitive areas.

“Turn around,” Thomas says softly, and Charles obeys.

He feels Thomas trace the firm muscles of his back, the curve of his spine, and relishes that too, can’t help rolling the muscles of his back, wishes he could see the effect that their rippling makes on Thomas. Then Thomas’ hands move lower, to his buttocks, and he tenses. Immediately Thomas’ hands lift off, touch his hip in a gentle gesture to turn around. He obeys again, expecting a question, an interrogation in Thomas’ gaze at the very least, but instead, there is a kind of knowing without judgment.

Finally, having satisfied himself with touch – for the moment – Thomas’ eyes make their way to his cock, already half-hard at the exploratory touches. He seems pleased at the sight, and yet his eyes fill with determination.

His hands move to Charles’ nipples, thumbing across them, and Charles sucks in a breath. They’re light, teasing touches – Thomas does not pull, or squeeze, does not toy with pain – but the feather-light sensation travels all the way to his cock and fills it.

Then Thomas leans forward and _licks._ He does not suck, but merely leaves a wetness there that feels empty and cold with the air once Thomas has taken his mouth away, but then his hands return, feather-light once again as they draw little circles.

Charles is fully hard now, and Thomas hasn’t even gotten anywhere near his cock. Minutes ago, he would have sworn that a touch so gentle could not draw arousal from him, but the smirking English lord before him has proven him wrong.

He wants to wipe that smirk off Thomas’ face, but with gentility rather than malice. Before he can act on that urge, however, Thomas’ hand finds a way to Charles’ face, and for a moment Charles thinks that Thomas will cup his face again and to that intimate kiss he seems so fond of, but instead Thomas’ hands wind their way into his hair and pull. “It is so convenient that your hair is long,” Thomas remarks. “Perfect for me to guide you where I want you.”

Charles makes a slight choking sound in surprise. If he had expected anything from Thomas, it was not that.

In response, Thomas pulls at his hair – gently – and Charles takes the hint, following Thomas towards the bed.

“Lie down,” Thomas guides him, and once Charles obeys, he finds Thomas on the bed, half atop him. Thomas touches his thigh, lightly, questioningly, and Charles spreads his legs obediently, allowing Thomas to settle between them.

But, instead of crawling down his body, Thomas ignores his cock entirely. Instead, he leans forward, sharing another quick kiss before his lips move to Charles’ neck, where they leave a trail of kisses. Each one is feather-soft, and yet each burns like fire.

He feels utterly out of his depth. Fighting and force, that he knew; coupling with ferocity was second nature to him. But the breath ghosting over his skin, raising goosebumps even in the heat, disorients him utterly. Here he is in uncharted waters, a helpless mariner looking at a clouded sky for direction.

His cock, however, feels much less uncertain. Where it had hardened, it remains so, lying against his belly, and he aches to touch it. He _could_ touch it, certainly Thomas wouldn’t stop him, _couldn’t_ stop him if he wanted to, but Charles feels instinctively that he must not. He must let himself go and be carried by the current.

He bites his lip as Thomas’ lips move again to his nipples, sucking this time. A cry tries to break free of his lips, and he holds it back at the last moment. He would never beg, either; he is not a man who begs, but a man who _takes,_ and yet that too seems to be on the edge of his lips.

Thomas lifts his eyes to regard Charles from beneath his eyelashes, golden in the light. He looks like a cat with a cup of cream, a satisfied smirk that leaves his lips only when they suckle at his nipples, then bite. The pain is negligible, but the novelty of the sensation brings a gasp to his lips.

Thomas alternates, sucking his nipples until they peak, sensitive, then biting softly. When he tires of that, he rolls his tongue around the tip of each, and Charles cannot help wishing he were doing the same to his cock. And yes he does not want to give up this, no, he wants it all, god help him, he wants to be _taken apart_ like this.

Finally, _finally,_ Thomas brings a hand to his cock, and he cannot hold back the arch of his back at that softest of touches.

“Oh, God, _yes,_ ” he mutters mindlessly, imagining Thomas’ mouth following his hand; his oh-so-talented mouth, as he just discovered, the wonders it could do to his cock…But instead, Thomas continues to stroke it, feather light. When he crawls down Charles’ torso, _finally,_ Charles heaves a sigh of relief, waiting for those warm, soft lips around his needy hardness, but instead, he feels a coldness. Blinking his eyes open, he realizes that Thomas is blowing lightly at the tip of his cock. He blinks, and in that moment, Thomas’ tongue darts out, swirling around the tip, cat-like once again as he wets it, then blows on it again.

Charles throws his head back and _roars._ The urge to _take_ suddenly makes itself known. How easy it would be, to grab Thomas, to flip that long, lanky body below him, to hold down and take…

But he finds he does not truly want to. The urge is an instinct, one honed for so long and practiced so regularly that it is second-nature, but which has so little to do with his actual _desire._

Thomas’ tongue is at it again, lapping at the tip of his cock, then the base, licking stripes up and down his balls. Always leaving a trail of wetness that feels cool against the hot air, the sensation thus lingering long after Thomas has moved away.

The “please” is harder to hold back this time, on the very tip of his tongue. But he won’t beg, no, _he won’t,_ not with Thomas looking so satisfied. He’s go the tip of Charles’ cock in his mouth, and looks like he’s on top of the world, and Charles wants to _strangle_ him, but he also doesn’t. God, he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants Thomas to tell him what he wants, and how the Hell had he gotten it here?

Finally, Thomas pulls off, sitting back slightly, and Charles tries to catch his breath. Thomas licks his lips, though they’re already wet with Charles’ precome, and Charles chokes slightly on air.

Then Thomas smiles wickedly and says, “I’m going to _take you apart._ ”

“Get on with it then,” Charles manages, hoarsely. He bucks up his hips suggestively.

Instead, Thomas rises, and Charles’ feels sudden trepidation. Had he said something wrong? But Thomas only reaches for a vial placed thoughtfully by the bed, unstoppering it to pour clear, fragrant liquid onto his fingers. Charles tenses again, knowing what comes next, but to his surprise, Thomas spreads his own legs wider and reaches back behind himself.

Charles watches, mesmerized, as Thomas works himself open. He makes a small, contented sound as the first finger sinks in, and rolls his hips seductively. Fucking himself on his own hand, Charles realizes, in the way that he intended to fuck him. A second and third finger join it, and the same contented smile remains on Thomas’ face as his eyes flutter closed.

Charles wonders what Thomas is imagining in this moment. Surely it isn’t him. He looks over to Flint, and in that usually inscrutable face he sees mirrored the same contentment. That’s one question answered, then.

He lies very, very still, feeling himself in a desperately precarious position, until Thomas withdraws his hand and his eyes snap open. His own cock is hard and leaking, but Thomas has given it no attention until this moment – or had he? Charles had been so occupied with his own pleasure that he had no idea whether Thomas had touched himself. Had he gotten hard just from taking Charles apart, from his pathetic sounds and helpless attempts to hold them back?

His hands fist in the sheets as Thomas sinks down on him, and the wet heat of his body envelops Charles’ cock. Thomas begins to ride him – his movements slow and languid, nothing like the heated race to climax that Charles is familiar with, but rather savoring the journey itself. He wants to grab Thomas by the hips, to urge his movements, faster, faster, to feel at least the sensuous slide of muscle as Thomas moves. But Flint had been crystal clear, and so Charles squeezes his eyes shut and holds on to the sheets instead of Thomas.

Then he feels Thomas’ hands grab his own and guide them to Thomas’ hips. He opens his eyes, surprised, and turns his head towards Flint, who sits in the corner, watching them both like a dark omen. Flint nods, brief but unmistakable, and Charles allows himself to hold – more gently, still, than he would prefer – and to feel Thomas’ skin moving under his own calloused hands as Thomas takes his pleasure atop him.

Charles watches him in awe. His head is thrown back in ecstasy, exposing the swan-like curve of his neck, his bare throat. His eyes are closed, delicate lashes upon pale skin, casting the shadow of a fan onto his cheeks in the candlelight. One of his hands is on Charles, the other stroking his own cock, each movement casting his taut muscles into relief.  Charles is suddenly struck once again by the sheer beauty of his body.

Then, suddenly, Thomas opens his eyes and _smiles,_ the corners of his lips quirking up in a way that spreads to his very eyes. He looks over to Flint, still rocking back and forth, though with slightly more speed now, and Charles, too, turns his head.

Flint is smiling too, and in that moment Charles glimpses, as he has never before, the sight of _intimacy._ It might be Charles’ cock that is inside Thomas, giving him pleasure, Flint may not even be _touching_ his lover, and yet their eyes speak words in a tongue Charles does not know.

 _Look,_ Thomas’ eyes say. _Look at my conquest._ And in return, Flint’s eyes fill with satisfaction, admiration, praise.

The force of a revelation crashes through him like a storm wave against the side of his ship.

His lovemaking with Eleanor had always been a battlefield, yet one in which each battle ended with an impasse. When he held her down, when he forced himself inside her with brutal thrusts it was as if he hoped that by fucking her hard enough, he could truly enter inside her being, own her, _control_ her, such that for all days to come she was his. And yet that physical mastery was never enough, and whether she lay below him or rode him, his hands denting bruises into her hips, she clawed her own pleasure from his body, took what he would give, and walked away having left as many battle wounds as she had received.

But between Flint and Thomas there was no mastery; these two belonged to each other, body and soul, but neither had fought to take the other from themselves.

The force of another revelation crashes through Charles, another implacable wave against a stony shore: the way that Thomas, in his conquest, had not _subjugated_ him. Charles had gone pliant at Thomas’ touch, obeyed and offered himself, and now the former lord used his body for his own pleasure. And yet, for all his obedience, Thomas had not demanded the submission Charles simply did not possess to give.

He could _give,_ Charles realizes, and Thomas took that pleasure as a cherished gift, writ in every line of his body. He took from Charles’ body an offering, not a prize seized in combat.

These revelations, cresting over him one after the other, bring forth his orgasm, another wave that covers him, head to toe, and made him tremble. His fingers tighten on Thomas’ hips, then he remembers himself and starts to let go, but before he can do so, Thomas’ hands cover his, gentle but firm, an obvious request. Or perhaps a command; with Thomas, Charles is not sure the difference matters.

Small sounds fall from Thomas’ lips as Charles fills him, and each of them burrows into Charles’ heart. He stills, as if to relish Charles’ seed filling him, while the movements of his arm speed up, a crescendo that ends in a final cry as Thomas spills himself over Charles.

This, too, is new: another man’s seed on his own body. He had thought it would repulse him, an unfortunate consequence of what would otherwise be a pleasurable coupling, but he finds that is not at all his reaction. It is but another way to feel Thomas’ pleasure, the way he can feel its warmth on his own belly as Thomas’ body clamps down on his now-sensitive cock.

He’s catching his breath, wondering what happens next, when Thomas slumps against him, head resting on Charles’ chest. It is thoroughly unexpected and yet just as thoroughly pleasant. He finds himself running a hand through golden hair, which is softer even than he thought it would be, as slight tremors run through the body above him.

It lasts mere moments. Charles blinks his eyes open to see Flint rising from his chair in the corner. For a moment, his heart flips over in his chest, but Flint has set aside his weapons, unbuckled his belt. He is clad in nothing more than shirt and breeches as he stalks over to the bed.

Thomas sits up again, pulling himself off of Charles’ cock gently. He blinks uncertainly, bliss written on his face, while his movements are as uncertain as those of a landlubber on a ship. Charles thinks he may be about to fall, and reaches out a hand to catch him, but Flint is already ahead of him. The other pirate’s strong hands are on Thomas’ arms, gentle but inexorable. Thomas climbs off the bed, and when he stumbles, Flint catches him.

Charles is reminded of a certain night when Thomas had stumbled because he _was_ on a ship.

He wonders what Flint means to do – Thomas is clearly satisfied, his cock soft between his legs – but offers no argument as Flint guides Thomas, still stumbling as if caught by vertigo, to the head of the bed, such that Charles, sprawled on it, has a full view of the two of them.

A gentle hand on his shoulder, and Thomas bends forward as Flint stands behind him. Thomas’ eyes are still lost in bliss, half-lidded, but Flint’s meet his own, and suddenly Charles _understands._

He watches almost breathlessly as a firm, freckled hand grasps one hip; he can see the indentations each finger makes in the skin, not necessarily hard enough to bruise, but Thomas’ skin is oh so fair…The other hand disappears from Charles’ view, behind Thomas, and Charles fathoms what those fingers are doing only when Thomas lets out a breathless “oh!” as a full-body shiver runs through him. For a moment, Charles is afraid that his knees might give out, that with his languid, pleasure-sated limbs, he will fall to the floor, but in the next he remembers Flint’s strong arms.

Flint would not let Thomas fall.

Flint does not spend long in preparation, and Charles realizes it is his own release, still inside Thomas, that partially slicks his way. When Flint thrusts inside Thomas, one long, brutal move, it forces the air from Thomas’ lungs, a louder gasp than any he has given before. He sees Thomas’ cock twitch, still unable to fill and yet desiring, and then Flint begins to _move._

He pounds into Thomas as the waves of a hurricane pound against a ship, ceaseless, merciless. A second hand comes to grip Thomas’ other hip, the better to drive inside him each time.

A cascade of sounds falls from Thomas’ lips, moans and breathless stutters. He shakes in Flint’s arms, helpless, but both Flint’s movements and his grip are merciless. There is no escape.

But neither does Thomas seem to want one. “ _James,_ ” he whispers, somehow managing to shape the word that falls awestruck from his lips, even as his body bends below Flint’s like a weeping willow in the wind. Flint reaches forward, a firm hand surrounding Thomas’ still-soft cock, and Charles almost winces. He knows how sensitive he is after orgasm, how deeply he feels the slightest touch. Thomas must feel the same, for his face fills what looks like the shadow of pain. “Ah! James…” he moans breathlessly, biting his lip, and Charles begins to rise from where he watches, impelled by a sudden instinct before he can stall his movements. Flint had made Charles give his swear, on his life, and yet here he was, breaking the very same promise he had made Charles give.

But then, to Charles’ surprise, Thomas lets out a final breathless gasp and spills over James’ hand. His head falls back on Flint’s shoulder, and Charles recognizes, in what he had thought was pain writ on Thomas’ face, instead the lines of ecstasy he had seen so recently.

Flint climaxes silently, made evident to Charles only by the stilling of his hips and a slight sigh of satisfaction. All through this he has been dark and silent as an omen, as death itself. As if the myth of Captain Flint had finally decided to make an intimate appearance.

Now Thomas almost does fall, his limbs giving out in the aftermath of two orgasms with so brief a time between them, but strong hands catch him. A mindless smile spreads over Thomas’ face as Flint’s arm snakes around his chest, then turns him around and hoists him into his two arms. Flint carries Thomas to the bed as a bride and deposits him gently onto the feather-soft mattress.

Charles feels suddenly as an intruder and rises to find his clothes and leave the two of them, but Thomas, even in his foggy state, notes the creaking of the bed as Charles moves to rise and reaches out a beckoning hand.

“Stay,” he entreats.

Charles freezes. He looks to Flint, and again receives nothing but a curt nod.

He returns to the bed, joining them on Thomas’ other side. Thomas smiles groggily when he feels the bed dip as Charles settle in beside him. Flint settles in behind Thomas, such that they lie, back to chest, his arm around Thomas’ body, a hold that Vane would call possessive if he had not learned by now that it was merely protective.

Thomas turns his head, and they engage in a kiss that is otherworldly in its gentleness.

“Thank you,” Thomas murmurs, and Charles is not quite sure whom he is addressing. Thomas’ breathing slows almost immediately as he falls into a blissful sleep, the smile still on his face.

Suddenly, his hand – unbidden, of its own accord, almost – reaches forward to trace the lines of that face, to attempt to tuck a stray strand of hair behind an ear, though it is much too short for that. Then, suddenly self-conscious of the movement, he meets Flint’s eyes over Thomas’ sleeping form.

But there is nothing antagonistic in Flint’s eyes – no anger, certainly, but neither do jealousy or possession find a place there. What he sees there instead is a very small, hidden smile. Perhaps gratitude, but certainly approbation.

He nods acknowledgement, then closes his eyes, and soon he, too, is sleeping.

…

He wakes with the sun. Beside him, Thomas sleeps peacefully, a strip of sunlight setting his pale skin alight, his hair gently tousled. Behind him, Flint’s features are as peaceful as Charles has ever seen them, free from the anger and fury and weight that fills them constantly. He had not realized the burden Flint carried until he saw him without it.

It is peace and comfort and intimacy of the kind against which Charles has fought with every fiber of his being, but now he is loath to leave. He forces himself from the bed and goes about collecting his clothes. He almost succeeds in leaving before Thomas stirs. He reaches an arm out and, finding empty space, blinks open an eye.

“Charles?” he calls, squinting against the sun on his face. “Must you go?”

He looks back at them, Flint’s arm still around Thomas even as he half sits up. The early morning light is soft, the bed cozy, the pillows enticingly soft. It is as charming as a fairytale, a vision of domestic peace he had only ever imagined before.

“I must,” he says reluctantly.

“Well then.” Thomas slips out from under the covers, a sunlit vision as he approaches Charles. “Shall I see you again?” he asks.

“I’d like that,” Charles admits, and a smile lights up Thomas’ face. He reaches up to give Charles a brief, sweet kiss.

“Until next time, then,” he says.

Charles returns to his empty rooms, but no attempt to while the empty hours away quite succeeds. They sail in several days for a new prize Eleanor has informed them of, but Jack has taken care of most formalities, and he finds himself staring at a blank wall. The sunlight falls through the window, catching the dust motes that float in his empty chamber, and yet its golden rays do not light the room with the same peace and comfort he had seen this morning.

He should be glad of that, but he finds that difficult.

…..

“Dull sublunary lovers…” Thomas finds himself reading the beloved words aloud once again, but not to James. No, it is another fearsome pirate captain that sits next to him, drinking in every word.

“He’s comparing the love shared by him and his beloved to that of ‘dull sublunary lovers’,” Thomas explains patiently as Charles listens. “That love, he says, is purely physical – its soul is sense, that is, sensation. Thus, it extinguishes itself with separation, because separation removes the thing that gave it life, that ‘elemented’ it: the physical union of their bodies.  But the love between him and his beloved transcends the physical, and so remains strong and pure and true even with their separation.”

“I think I understand,” Charles says, and Thomas realizes he’s not talking about the words themselves. “Is that why you took me to your bed? Because another physical body makes no difference to that which you share?”

Thomas reaches for Charles’ hand and presses it gently.

“It makes all the difference,” he says kindly. “James and I desire nothing less than one another’s happiness. He let me bring you to our bed because he loves me, and wished for me to be happy. And I am. You have brought us both joy.”

The porch creaks just then and Flint appears from within the house. Charles withdraws his hand from Thomas’ as if it burns, then feels both ridiculous and disgusted with himself. He and Thomas aren’t fucking star-crossed lovers, and he hasn’t needed to hide and sneak around furtively since Eleanor had been young, stealing out to meet him for brief, passionate hours.

Thomas, on the other hand, looks unruffled. His face splits into a smile.

“James,” he says happily.

Flint’s eyes flicker from Thomas’ hand to Charles, and amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“How is the lesson coming?” he asks.

“Quite well. Charles is an excellent student,” Thomas announces proudly. Charles tries not to preen too much at the praise.

Flint raises an eyebrow.

“Is he now?”

“He has certainly grasped the fine distinction between sublunary and refin’d love,” Thomas offers, and Charles wonders if Thomas and James have discussed him and Eleanor.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, I won’t interrupt any longer. I’m off to Nassau for some affairs. I’ll be back by sunset.” He bends down to kiss Thomas, soft and sweet.

“Godspeed. Come back to me, my love,” Thomas says.

“Always,” Flint returns.

Charles looks on and feels suddenly like a man in shadow who sees the golden sunlight through the narrow window of his dungeon. The poem’s words, read in Thomas’ soft voice, come unbidden to his mind on a wave of sadness:

_Our souls, though I must go, endure not yet a breach, but an expansion._

It is a strange sensation, to understand the words, and yet be unfamiliar with the tongue they are spoken in.


End file.
